Becoming Bad (The Becoming Novels) Read Free

Tyr smirked.
    Fite cut him a withering glare. ‘The
thegn
doctor is the fucking moron. He let the girl escape. If Savage hadn't bitten her, she might have been lost to us forever.’
    MacTire pulled rank. ‘Madden was punished for the mistake and bore that punishment honourably. It is done, and we will speak no more of it.’ Fomorian justice was swift and brutal. Anything less would lose face in the men's eyes. There were no saints amongst this rabble, and no room for grudges.
    Fite scowled, but knew better than to push.
    Tyr, as always, broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘Has anyone actually seen Madden since we left the shore?’
    ‘Probably crawled back above-ground to lick his wounds,’ Rún spoke as he tipped the horn to refill MacTire’s cup, ‘poor bastard.’
    The King merely nodded, scrubbing a hand over his nape. This was the way of things. Family brooked no favouritism when his men walked such a thin line between order and barbarity. And as brother to MacTire’s former queen, Aoife, Madden was technically family, though it was regrettable the boy turned out defective and was forced to enter
thegn
life. Regardless, MacTire reserved the harshest punishments for those closest to him.
    It was no different in the case of his blód-brother. Connal had it coming; he’d have known when he brought Ashling to Fomor, even if it was to save her, that mercy wasn’t on the cards. The coin cut into his fisted palm.
    Call it divine retribution, a mate for a mate. Ashling was his.
    He stuffed the collar into a pocket and two-handed a joint of meat, forcing himself to chew through the tough flesh. There was no absolute necessity to eat. Fomorians had the blood of the gods in their veins. They did not age or die, save by mortal injury, such as having your head severed from your body.
    Or your bones picked clean by the raveners ...
    MacTire dropped the meat and drowned that image in a long draft of ól. They might not age, but they bled, and hurt, and scarred like any mortal, and they still felt the primal desires of thirst, hunger and lust. And so they ate meat their bodies did not need and fucked human women incapable of carrying their cubs. Anything to fill the interminable hours of incarceration.
    The sound of cattle lowing broke through the revelries.
    ‘There goes dinner,’ Brandr laughed. A pair of steers was being led through the caverns, en route to be butchered and spit-roasted for the celebrations. Their meat traversed the black waters on the hoof. Inanimate objects didn’t travel well. Even living things came through in a state of temporary paralysis, which was why larger animals, such as beef cattle, were reserved for special occasions.
    ‘We’re killing the fatted calves, I see,' the King said. Ironic, given he’d already slaughtered the prodigal brother ... He drained his cup once more and refilled, obsidian eyes trained on the door of the banqueting hall.
    ‘I tell you,’ Brandr said, ‘lugging fifteen hundred pounds of mature beef steer out of the tide before the raveners get to you requires balls of steel.’
    ‘I should know,’ Rún smirked, ‘I’ve dragged your ass out of there often enough.’
    Brandr clapped his
félag
on the back. ‘Aye, and I yours, my blód-brother,’ he laughed.
    The brand on MacTire’s sternum burned as he silently observed their banter.
    ‘I’ve always wanted to see how the
thegn
smuggle livestock through the streets of Dublin. That requires ingenuity,’ Fite pointed a bone in Brandr’s direction. ‘I mean, how do you parade an animal that size through a city nightclub without drawing attention?’
    ‘Put it in a dress and lipstick?’ Tyr’s innocent face trembled laughter that was contagious. The entire
skuldalid,
MacTire excepted, cracked up. ‘Seriously. Why don’t we just farm them here?’ the boy asked.
    ‘And what would they graze on?’ Fite’s voice took on a serious edge, ‘pastures of bone and blood? The raveners consume all, Tyr.’
    All